Observations
by forsimplictyssake
Summary: In a hospital such as theirs, with close working quarters, long nights, and the underlying tension of the war, there were bound to be a handful of emotions swirling around. Though they can't always act, they can observe—and perhaps, when the last patient has been laid down and the final lantern blown out, they might just be able to discuss. Jed/Mary
1. Blame the Virginian Summers

There was an intensity in the way he watched her: dark eyes with dark expressions. Several of the boys, bed-bound and bored, would comment on the way that the doctor would never fully dismiss the nurse if they were ever in the same room together. If she was dressing a torn up hand or a bleeding leg and Doctor Foster so happened to be passing through, it was noted that he would sometimes linger longer, his gaze subtlety taking in the swift movements of her fingers.

There was one afternoon, as several of the boys in the front lobby could attest to, where it seemed like Doctor Foster practically froze.

It was a rather warm day and everyone was feeling it. With Mary and Samuel's attempts to open a few windows thwarted weeks ago, there was no breeze to bring in any sort of fresh air. The heavy smell of sweat and blood hung around the hospital. The nurses seemed to bristle a little sooner, the doctors a little more aggravated with their patients. No one would blame anyone, for it was a sweltering summer in Virginia and God help them, it was hot and sticky and awful.

Wounded men and boys were turning up at the doorstep of Mansion House tenfold and with shortening supplies, it was difficult to be attentive of everyone in the manner in which (most of) the staff wished they could be. Patients cried out in pain, asking for water, their mother, their beds back home, but it was utterly impossible to give them all they wanted. It was as if the longer the afternoon went on—the more sun that filled the room—the shorter everyone's patience became and it was like the hospital itself was slowly heating up with agitation.

And then, like a splash of cool water, Nurse Mary came walking through on her rounds with a calming countenance and steady hands. She wasn't immune to the heat—in fact a few strands of her hair had come loose from its usual bun to cup her face. Her cheeks and forehead were flushed and slightly damp. Her eyes, scanning patients with a precise manner, gave little away as to whether or not she was feeling the full effects of exhaustion. As she passed a young man, perhaps 19 or so, he reached out a hand to her and immediately, Mary stopped in her steps to try and give a little comfort to the soldier.

In complete opposites, Jed was swiftly walking between beds with little attention to those who weren't utterly dying at his feet. His hair, naturally with a curl, was wild with the humidity and his eyes were slightly bloodshot from late nights and early mornings.

He had just finished a long surgery which, he had a terrible feeling, would end in death merely a few hours later. A boy from Virginia's own backyard had been hit and the shots had ripped apart his stomach, gutshot as they called it. There was little hope that they could properly stem the bleeding, but Jed had given it his best. (Under different circumstances, he would have said he could do nothing, but the boy's blasted resemblance to Ezra pulled at his conscience and he had to try.) As the Union soldier lay sleeping, the effects of the chloroform not quite wearing off, he could only offer a sympathetic glance before a feeling of uselessness crept into the back of his mind and slowly worked its way into his heart. Damn it if he didn't feel like he was fighting a losing battle.

His steps were loud and forceful as he brushed past nuns and soldiers. His world felt like it was careening awfully close to the edge with each passing day. Eliza had not written back to him since she left for California, his mother and brother cursed his existence, and his patients were dying faster than he could patch them up. As he barely scanned his surroundings, his eyes flickered over the bending form of the only woman to know the worst of him and still stand by his side.

Immediately, his footing faltered just a hair and he paused in his movements. The bright afternoon sun, the devilish heat it caused, enveloped Mary in a yellow angelic light as she leaned ever so slightly over the bed of crying man. Her eyes, usually calculated, were full of compassion, at least as much as she allowed herself to show, as she whispered soft and low to the man. She didn't draw close like other nurses might; no, she kept her distance as to not give off any wrong ideas, but even with the gap between their bodies, the soldier seemed to calm just with her presence close to him.

Jed longed to be on the receiving end of such comfort. How many times had he watched her soothe a ragged mind and wish that she would instead ease his own? How many nights had he hoped to hear her voice, a soothing cadence, as he tried fitfully to sleep?

Her mouth lifted at the sides as she offered kind words and a gentle smile. When the soldier gathered himself, Mary uncharacteristically squeezed his hand before patting it and picking up a few things on the bedside table to take back to the supply closet.

In all that time, perhaps a few seconds, perhaps minutes, Jed hadn't moved. His eyes had greedily taken in her form, her mannerisms, the way in which she never made herself higher than any of her patients. His stare roved over her body, her hair falling down at the nape of her neck, the flush rising to her cheeks. He was like a man lost in the desert and she the first pool of water for miles. Deep down, very deep down, he was disgusted in himself. He was still married (seemingly in name only), she just recently widowed, and yet here he was, practically tracing every part of her with dark eyes. Damn this heat!

But when Mary stood to her full height and turned to accidentally catch his gaze, Jed knew he couldn't blame it all on the oppressive summer they were having. There was an even darker part of him, a part he hardly addressed, that had long since felt the touch of a woman—of smooth hands and soft lips—and it called to him every so often. On nights when the rolling clouds blotted out even the light of the stars, Jed might entertain an idea, but he had never, ever crossed any lines in the daylight. (Ok, there was the one time, but as Mary kindly pointed out, the morphine had turned him into someone he wasn't, or at least, someone he didn't want to be. But that was an issue to address at another time.)

He and Mary kept eye contact for exactly three beats of his heart before a soldier coughed, whether intentionally or not, no one ever found out. Like a skittish dog hearing the call of its master, Jed's head snapped to the direction of the sound. Nothing. He quickly turned back to look across the hall. Mary was gone. A heat very different to the warmth of the sun rose to his face and Jed excused himself to all but run up the stairs to the staff's quarters. He wouldn't disappear to his room; no that would not make the right impression, but he needed to get out of the soldiers' stares. He needed to collect his thoughts, perhaps get a glass of water, and make sure the feelings that were so close to boiling over downstairs were bottled up.

He was a grown man, not some rutting teenager, and he wouldn't allow his respectful image of the nurse to be tainted by these thoughts. He sat down on the small bench by the stairs and cradled his head in his hands. He was being so dramatic and that alone drove him mad.

Jedediah Foster was no fool; he knew how his feelings for Mary were growing with each passing day. He knew that his longing for both a partner of equal intelligence and morals, and for a lover with a kind heart and congenial tongue, only ever landed him with one prospect. However, he also knew with equal intensity that there was no way these feelings would ever be reciprocated. His hurled insults and snide remarks about her upbringing and marriage (followed by an untimely death) had all but solidified that fact. Yet here he was, at 36 years of age, pining. Pining! Grown men did not pine! It all brought him to a crossroads which he feared to face:

1\. He could tell Mary of his feelings and be damned the consequences.

2\. He could hold it all in and hope to God he never exploded.

Neither of these sounded like particularly ideal scenarios. As he continued to mull over observations and potential courses of action, a yell for his name downstairs ripped him from this thoughts. It was Mary's voice and she was calling out. Another soldier, another deadly deadline. Quickly shoving any feelings aside, his mind switched to scientific studies, his learnings from Europe, and what he could do to try and stop another life from ending.

Tonight perhaps, if it wasn't too busy, he could check back in with these hellish thoughts. He couldn't act on these thoughts, but merely observe them. Right now, he had to be a doctor.

* * *

Ah yes, I've now joined this fandom head first because why not. I've moved some of my work over from ao3, so it's a bit of double dipping :) This is the first in the series to explain both Jed's mindset and later, Mary's. Please let me know what you think!


	2. Small Sparks and Smoldering Embers

Thank you for the kind welcome to the fandom. I just wanted to point out that this series or more or less like a collection of drabbles. They all string together to form a story, but it's more sporadic and less fluid than a typical novella. I hope you enjoy Mary's point-of-view.

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There were many a flirtatious glance within the walls of Mansion House. From young men—beaten, bruised, and shot at—adoringly watching equally young nuns and volunteers, to the sisters themselves sneaking peaks at the soldiers; even in times of war it seemed that the human heart beat on.

For one nurse, she was sure she was past those teenaged years. She had been blessed to find a man who shared her love of literature and culture and had been gifted years with him. She had loved her husband with all her heart and when he had been taken away from her so quickly in their matrimony, Mary Phinney was positive that she had no more love to give. She was a widow now, and at twenty-nine years of age there was little chance of rekindling a spark. Of course, the current war didn't help her chances at romantic prospects either.

This war: this awful, disastrous, disgusting war that ripped families apart; took boys from their youth; killed the light in many… This war had been ravaging the souls of everyone it touched and though Mary tried her best to be positive in nearly every situation, today seemed as if it would be the most trying yet.

The heatwave that had hit Alexandria three days past looked as if it would never depart. It had come in with an angry roar as it filled the hospital with a heavy warmth and a pressure on everyone's chest. The air was so thick and full of moisture that even breathing seemed a task the healthy struggled with. It was becoming easier to be short with one another as everyone slunk around in the afternoon sun. Nurses moved a little slower; doctors chastised a little sooner. Everyone was equally miserable and equally aware of each other.

Mary herself almost wished she could fall prey to such feelings, but as she watched the faces of the young (and some old) men come into Mansion House with the tiniest glimmer of hope in their eyes, she knew she couldn't give in.

At ten o'clock in the morning, the front rooms were already sweltering. Mary cast the large windows a quick disdainful glance as she thought of the fresh air they might be getting if only a certain "Queen of Crimea" would have allowed her and Sam to pry them open. Originally, she thought they could have closed the curtains to keep the horrible heat out, but upon realization that this action would also snuff out much of the day's light, she reconsidered. It seemed as if they would have to bear the full brunt of the Virginian summer.

As she made her rounds between the beds, Mary stopped every so often to check on her patients. A young man's hand stopped her mid-stride and her eyes shot down to see a pained expression. Her heart sank (as it still had leave to do) when she saw how young he was. He may have been almost nineteen, but his young face stirred up memories of the young cavalryman who had died in near the same bed months ago.

This particular boy here was recovering well, but from what Doctor Foster had said the other day, he was another that seemed to be suffering from soldier's heart. He seemed well enough on the outside—barely traces on his face and arms from where the debris had cut at him in the canon fire—but whenever he made to get close to the front doors of Mansion House he would immediately become internally anguished and a fear would pale his face. Doctor Hale had been not-so-subtly attempting to have him thrown out into the street to make room for those that were "actually suffering ailment," but Mary continued not-so-subtly tell him off.

She stooped ever so slightly over the soldier's bed as she drew his hands in hers. His eyes were watering as his eyebrows drew up and together in pain. He tried his best to swallow the whimpers, but before long he was openly crying, his sobs causing his shoulders to shake. Mary watched him with sympathetic eyes as her mind was briefly flitted to the last time a man had cried like this in front of her.

Jed…

As much as she longed for her heart to cease itself, it still yearned to comfort, and when she had witnessed something she never thought possible, her first instinct hadn't been to tell the Matron or Doctor Summers as other nurses might do, but to instead reach out a hand in aid.

She had seen him at his absolute worst and yet she wasn't frightened. She knew it was something that could be overcome with time and strict guidance and she had made it a mission of hers to see it through.

She imagined many of the nurses and sisters were startled by his short temper, even more so as of late, but she took it all in stride. He was rather frazzled this last week, but with the suppressive heat and short handedness of staff, Mary found it a relatively reasonable response. He was, she imagined, a rather wild man at heart, with outlandishly forward ideas and strong opinions. As opposed to her leveled tactfulness, Doctor Foster—no, Jed—was all passion and emotion. That wasn't to say Mary wasn't; in fact she remembered quite a few rows with her late husband, though they more often than not were centered around local issues and as the pair were so much alike, there was little to quarrel about.

No, Mary was very passionate about many things but chose instead to place these thoughts strategically, whereas he was more apt to throwing them out at will.

However, she had to admit that no one goaded her quite as well as Jedediah Foster, and she'd be a fool to pretend that she didn't enjoy their squabbles now and again. There was something about the way his dark eyes grew impossibly darker when they fought. The tension that filled the air, practically electric some days, made is seem as if a lit match might cause Mansion House itself to explode. And then there was the way he would try to subtly apologize for any missteps: a gentle grasp at her wrist to get her attention, a kind mouth and gentle eyes. He was such a man of feeling, all his emotions written across his face as if he were an open book. Mary found that rather appealing as if—

Immediately Mary chastised herself. She was supposed to be comforting a soldier not thinking of Jed's eyes and mouth!

Yet she couldn't pull herself away from that train of thought entirely. As she tried her best to whisper reassurance to the young man, she watched his hands in her own. The soldier's fingers were tanned and slightly rough from his time in the military, quite unlike Jed's, which were a bit smoother and paler with his medical work. It had become an awful habit as of late, but whenever Mary assisted in any sort of procedure, she had taken to letting her fingertips linger on Jed's as they passed scalpels and twine and saws between each other. She had slowly begun to know that part of him and it thrilled her inside, even if she wished for her heart to stop its horrible timing. She had a feeling deep down that she couldn't love anyone again, not like she had with Gustav, but those seconds given to her where she and Jed touched ever so softly—they continued to feed something Mary was a bit afraid of.

Her husband's hands had been incredibly soft and with plump palms as most men of means were. Jed's were longer and thinner, with rough tips and a few scars from handling sharp tools. When he had gripped her wrist that day in the supply closet, Mary had been startled at the feeling of his hand on her bare skin. It had been quite sometime since someone had touched her in that manner. She was used to the hands of soldiers—the taut restraint of a man in pain—not the desperate pull of a superior who has becoming increasingly close to crossing a line on a few occasions (and she with him).

Her heart had been hammering so hard against her rib cage that all it took to stop it completely was his rough voice calling her name, the murmur sending a spark not all that unfamiliar down her spine and through her chest. Just thinking about it now caused a tension to build in Mary's heart and almost surprisingly, the pit of her stomach.

Suddenly the young soldier sniffled slightly, trying his best to regain what little composure remained and Mary dumped her thoughts of Jed the best she could in order to turn her full attention (well, 93% if she was being honest) to him. She offered him a small smile and when he didn't look at her, Mary spoke to him about how he would, he would, get better and go home to his family.

Mary pulled at his folded hands for a moment to let him feel her and remind him that he was still alive, whether or not his mind and soul believed otherwise. It would be a long road for his recovery but she was optimistic. She whispered softly to him, trying her best to bring comfort. As she did so, she silently wished another man might hear them and know that he too would be better in time.

The young man began to slowly pull himself back together. The fear was still there in the small gasps, but the tears were gone. He took a few hiccuping breaths and and when he finally brought his gaze to hers, Mary knew she had done all she could. She gave his hand one more kind squeeze before patting them and righting herself.

Her body felt flushed as she made to pick up a few discarded items from the bedside table. She could feel the sweat at the back of her neck, her cheeks damply kissed by strands of hair. She wanted to blame the awful heat, but as she again (again, really Mary?!) thought of the doctor, she had a horrible feeling that maybe it wasn't just the fault of this sweltering summer. Oh, how she longed for a cool room where she could escape these raging thoughts and feelings.

She gathered the few things and gave one last look to the young man as he laid back in his cot and tried to collect his breath and thoughts. As she turned, she immediately felt the hair on her arms rise as if near an electrical current.

There, across the hall, was the tall form of the very man on her mind. He had been watching her, if the rosy dusting on his cheeks was any indication, and her face began to color with this realization. The humidity had turned his hair into a wild mane, curls reaching in all directions and kissing his forehead. A deep part of her wished to brush them back; to tame that bit of feral instinct in him. Her heart thudded so loudly that she was able to count three precise beats; they shared exactly three beats together before someone near him coughed and he spun to see who it was.

Like a spray of ice water against her overheated body, the break of eye contact startled Mary and she briskly made her way out of the room. She tried her best not to draw attention to herself; it wouldn't do to see her all but sprinting around the hospital when there was no current emergency. She passed a few other volunteers, Miss Green among them, as her legs carried her to the back of the building. She placed the few things in her arms on the ground before placing a hand to her chest as if to quell her quivering lungs.

Mary was immediately filled with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. On one hand, the sight of Jed before her, cheeks pink and beads of sweat collecting on his face and falling into the hollow of his throat, brought a rather animalistic punch to her gut and a heat to her face. On the other hand, she was a woman of practicality and he a man of some standing; it was incredibly unladylike to be having these thoughts of a man… A man with a wife, on top of it all! The tiny flicker of excitement was extinguished completely as she promptly remembered that though Mrs. Foster no longer lived on the east coast, they were still bound by matrimony.

She now felt ashamed with herself. How could she have allowed herself to forget Eliza Foster so quickly? She had left weeks ago, but they had seen each other; they were aware the other existed. Here she was, a woman who had put love aside for honor and duty, and how easy it was for her to cast away those responsibilities because Jed had looked at her in such away. She would never be able to face him in a private room again.

As her mind and heart swam with what ifs and maybes, the sound Emma Green's voice calling her name snapped her from her thoughts. Turning to look back in the door, she caught the sight of a man being held up by two others. Another soldier had been brought in, this one with a rather large rip in his side from what looked like a bayonet. This required the skilled hands of a surgeon and though she fought the urge, Mary left her things and her mixed emotions behind her. Weaving through patients and volunteers, she called for the only man she knew could handle this.

Perhaps later should could stew on why this accursed spark had decided now of all times to ignite, but for now she had to do her job; she had to be a nurse.

* * *

A continuation and the emotions are much more intense now! This story is originally from my ao3 account so I'll try to keep things posted over here, too! I haven't gotten back to Mercy Street in a bit so I hope Mary wasn't too far off. I realized I wanted her to really think through these things because I always figured Jed to be a man of action and Mary a woman of thought. I also have a headcanon that she's a little obsessed with his hands because, I don't know... I just do. Please let me know your thoughts! The next chapter (I may have 2 more, or just 1) will at least conclude with these two idiots finally having 'the talk.'

Thank you again for reading!


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